Page 59 of Of Murder and Matrimony

Her watery blue eyes bore into me. “I couldn’t stand to be in the same city, knowing how much you hated me. Knowing you’d used me and tossed me aside.”

“I’m so sorry,” my voice cracked. I reached out and pulled my wife to me so tightly she couldn’t get away, even when she tried to push against my chest. “So fucking sorry, Olesya.”

“I spent ten years thinking you hated me,” she murmured against my neck. “Hating you. Even when you forced me to marry you. I don’t know what to think.”

“I’m not asking you to forgive me because I may never forgive myself,” I rasped against her ear. “I just want you to understand. It was all for nothing in the end because I still dragged you into this life.”

“But I’m a doctor now,” Olesya said softly.

“Yes, you are.”

Her arms circled my waist, fingers digging into my bare flesh as she held on tightly. I didn’t dare say a word, grateful she hadn’t slapped me and run away. Her affection was more than I deserved.

I sat there, cradling my wife against my body in the night's silence, breathing her in, trying to absorb every ounce of her I could while she’d still allow it.

Chapter Eighteen

Dante gave me space after dropping the bomb of his motivation for his past actions on me a few nights ago. It gave me time to think about him and our relationship—both in the past and the present. One of the things I admired most about my husband was his dedication to doing whatever was necessary for those he loved. That same dedication led him to drive me away. He was trying to save me.

Ultimately, his rejection was the reason I ran away and pursued my dreams, and I couldn’t be angry about the outcome. I disagreed with how he went about it, and we’d need to have a conversation about how he communicated concerns moving forward. But we were both young and stupid. I might have run away on my own had my father told me I couldn’t attend medical school, even though I’d loved Dante.

Love.

Dante had confessed his love. Every day since that first time in the shower after we’d been in the shootout. In the mornings when we awoke in each other’s arms, when he left for work, when he returned home, and when we climbed into bed at night. I couldn’t overlook his devotion.

He was so different from the Dante I’d known all my life. Lighter, more expressive. He’d told me it was what I deserved from him, and I agreed with that. I deserved love and loyalty. I only hoped it didn’t make Dante weak in the eyes of the Neretti organization. He would never be free of the Mafia. It was as much who he was as I was his wife.

Now I had to decide what to do because I could respect where my husband came from. I suspected the warm feelings for him were turning into more than affection and veering into falling in love all over again. Only, this time, I wasn’t a naïve teenager, but a grown woman who understood the intricacies of the life I was born into and now married into.

It was time to let the past go and build a life together. Dante would be the father of my children, and in the Italian crime family, divorce was not an option. For better or worse, we would live a shared life. I didn’t know what that would look like, but it was worth it to try.

Suddenly, I had an idea. Maybe not a great idea, but it was something, at least. I reached into my office desk and pulled out a pad of paper and a pen to start jotting down ideas.

“What are you doing?” It was becoming normal for the Neretti men to drop by my little clinic when they needed something, but this voice belonged to somebody I didn’t expect. I looked up into dark eyes that seemed blank, yet held a world of experience.

“Cosimo,” I greeted, trying to keep my voice even. He’d always made me uncomfortable, like the shocking chill of a sunny day clouding over. “What can I do for you?”

“Need some sutures,” he supplied, pulling his leather jacket to the side and yanking his black t-shirt up. There, on the side of his back, was a rectangular bandage, already soaking through with blood.

I pushed my chair back and pointed toward the main area of the clinic. “Take your jacket and shirt off and lie on the exam table.”

Diego sat in a chair, my ever-present protection. He did his best to avoid making eye contact with Cosimo. I wondered if there had ever been somebody in Cosimo’s life who didn’t fear him, then remembered Antonella. Of course, his mother would have loved him unconditionally.

“Usually, the ladies wine and dine me before making me get naked,” he said drolly, shrugging out of his coat and pulling his shirt over his head, revealing an expanse of tattooed skin over finely honed muscles. My breath caught at the beauty of the intricate designs.

“I doubt you take that much convincing,” I shot back, scrubbing my hands and donning blue nitrile gloves. I found a suture kit and set it on a metal tray with a syringe and vial of local anesthetic. “Want to tell me what you did to yourself?”

Cosimo pushed himself up on the exam table and turned onto his stomach, resting his chin on his forearms. “I didn’t do it. Some punk thought he could get away from me.”

“Hm.” I peeled back the bandage, revealing a gash that was a couple of inches long but had clean edges. It was still bleeding a little. I prepped the syringe and swabbed the area with an alcohol wipe. “I’m just going to numb the area so you don’t feel the sutures. Knife?”

“Yeah.” Cosimo didn’t flinch when I inserted the needle along the wound. “He kept a switchblade up his sleeve.”

I tossed the syringe into the sharps container and began irrigating the wound. “I’m guessing that didn’t turn out well for him.”

“No.” His curt response spoke volumes, and I assumed the person responsible for the wound had suffered much more than Cosimo.

I poked at the sides of the laceration. “Can you feel that?”

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